


The Year I Was 30

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M, Team Dynamics, team poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-01 17:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13299309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: “Life comes at you fast, eh, Murr?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Goalie draaaaaaaaama. :))))) Never gonna tire of it, jsyk.
> 
> This part takes place over the first two weeks of December 2017, when Tristan Jarry took the reins as starter. Part 2 will be The Game in Vegas that nearly killed us all. The article referenced is [here.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.post-gazette.com%2Fsports%2Fpenguins%2F2017%2F11%2F12%2FTristan-Jarry-Matt-Murray-Penguins-same-goaltender%2Fstories%2F201711120149&t=NzA3MzRjZTViNWJmOGRjY2ViZGZhNTlhNzQ1MDcwZjVhNTA5OTk2MSxCa015Y2lYUg%3D%3D&b=t%3ApliyAwj70p-bsfILW0RocQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsnickfic.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168124877416%2Fdecember-prompts&m=0) I, um. Did not read it as a manifesto to how close they are.
> 
> Also, the title is just a play on Murray's number and ~maturity. He is definitely 23. From [this song, which I've listened to a lot lately.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1qlK5dF5s4) And which resonates with how I feel about Matt Murray, at least a little.

“Life comes at you fast, eh, Murr?” 

Looking up sharply from his phone at Tanger’s voice, Matt finds him half out of his uniform, sweat still dripping from his hair. “What’s that?” he says automatically.

“Must feel kinda familiar,” Tanger answers and grins. It isn’t a very nice one. Matt has seen his nice ones, though never directed at him. He points at Jarrs unbuckling his pads in his stall. “The student becomes the master.”

The visitor’s locker room is loud with their post-game victory music, and the guys are all riding high on three straight wins. Jarrs just got his first shutout, and Matt hasn’t been able to get to him yet tonight beyond a quick fist bump on the way off the ice after the buzzer.

Tanger’s smirk is…not awesome, but not a surprise either. “Yeah, we’ll see, I guess,” is all Matt manages before Tanger is out of earshot or not paying attention. He blames his slow tongue on the pain meds. He probably shouldn’t have come to Buffalo, but it was such a short flight, and he’d wanted to be here for Jarrs’ first start as…as starter. 

His wrapped groin makes his suit pants a little too tight, and he shifts his weight awkwardly on his crutches, phone still clutched in one hand. He needs to sit. With Casey back up from Wilkes, there’s no space next to Jarrs.

He looks around for Buck, who would also want him to sit, but his coach is nowhere close by. A buzz from his phone distracts him, and his heart jumps when he sees it’s a text from Marc. 

_How you holding up?_

The meds must be fucking with his moods, too, because a lump pushes into his throat as he thumbs back a quick answer. _All right, thanks. See Jarrs’ shutout?_

 _Very nice, yes._ Then, a moment later. _How are you holding up?_

Christ. _On some good drugs. So, okay._

 _We’re IR buddies now_ , Marc answers.

_Yeah. Not for long, though._

He gets a fingers-crossed emoji for that and the sunglasses face, which Marc has always been overly fond of. Then, _Tell everyone I say hi!_

Matt will not be doing that. The one and only time he’s done that this season was after a lousy game in Vancouver, dragging through their western Canada road trip. Matt prides himself on letting go of his bad games—and shit, there have been a few this year—but he’s not going to forget the glare he got from Tanger any time soon. Marc-Andre had wanted him to tell the guys to get their shit together, and Matt had even edited that part out. But worse than Tanger’s anger was Sid’s look of hurt—that Matt would mention Flower’s name when his presence was missed so deeply, and so obviously preferred to Matt’s. Or maybe something else. Whatever the cause, Matt never wanted his captain to look at him like that ever again.

He keeps Marc-Andre’s correspondence to himself these days. He keeps a lot of things to himself. 

The press descends, and Matt gladly stays out of their way until a hand on his back startles him out of his thoughts. “You wanna get yourself set up in a room?” Buck asks him. “I’ll send Jarrs your way when he’s done with this circus.”

Matt gives his coach a quick nod. “All right, yeah.”

“Just make sure you take it easy. Really easy.”

“I will.”

With the help of his crutches, Matt hobbles to a spare room. They don’t have a lot of space in their itinerary on the road, but cool-down time is still built in. And Matt is the veteran here, so Matt goes where he’s expected to go. 

The cool-down rooms are sparse on the visitor’s side—a bed, some towels, a sink, and two uncomfy chairs. Matt leans his crutches against the wall and carefully lowers himself to sit on the bed. Buck is right—he needs to take it easy tonight, and he’s sure Jarrs will understand that. He’ll want to celebrate his shutout, but he won’t get rough. Truthfully, he hasn’t seemed to want much from Matt since he’s been up, though this is his first real test.

It kind of hurts to sit, so Matt tips backward to lie flat on the bed. He stares up at the ceiling and thinks back to his first shutout with the big team. 5-0 against the Islanders right before the start of playoffs. Flower was feeling well enough to attend the game, and he’d waited for Matt in a cool-down room just like this one. Coming off that win, Matt had only wanted to see Flower. He’d barely been able to sit through the scrum and the endless “How does it feel?” and “What does it mean to you?” questions. 

It felt great, and it only meant anything if Flower gave him that grin and told him he was good. He’d found Flower dozing in the cool-down room, climbed up on the bed with him, and sucked him off without taking off his suit pants. Matt gave 5-0-shutout head, and Flower gave every indication it was fantastic. 

Mouth twitching at the memory, Matt tries to picture that with Jarrs. Would Tristan want to give or get shutout head? Did Matt have a preference? His dick doesn’t seem to have much interest in either possibility. He’ll probably feel better after a quick nap. Jarrs won’t mind, he’s sure. Matt took more than a few naps with Flower after games. Sometimes it was just what the body needed. 

Covering his eyes with one arm, Matt breathes in deep and lets it out slowly. 

Tanger hadn’t meant to psych him out, probably. Just maybe give him a little of what Flower must have felt when Matt started all those games and then dominated the playoffs. And Matt’s owed that, definitely. It’s not like he was unsympathetic at the time. But now maybe he can empathize.

A shake at his shoulder startles him, and he lifts his arm, blinking in the glare from the overhead light. “Jarrs? Hey, I—”

“No, it’s me. We gotta go, man. Time to get on the bus.”

Matt blinks a few times and Shearsy—who is in no way shaped liked Jarrs—comes into focus. “Shit, did I fall asleep?”

“I dunno—cool-down time is over, though.” Shearsy, offers him a hand up, and Matt takes it, grunting at the soreness in his groin as he comes upright.

“Seems like you needed that nap, huh? Maybe you shoulda sat this one out.”

Rubbing his eyes, Matt shakes his head. “I’m good.” He grabs his crutches and takes the lead out of the cool-down room. Jarrs didn’t come. Jarrs didn’t even come to tell him he didn’t need anything.

He’s a little too nap-fogged to be embarrassed about it. That comes when he climbs onto the bus—leaving his crutches for Shearsy to hold while he awkwardly hops and pulls himself up the steps—and sees Jarrs already in a seat, Rusty and Knuckles hanging over the back of theirs joking and laughing with him. He tries to keep his face blank, but just in case he sucks at that, he drops into the first empty seat he finds, right at the front of the bus. 

And right across the aisle from Tanger, naturally. He darts a quick look over to see Tanger ignoring him, earbuds in, absorbed in his phone—which is both a relief and disappointing for reasons Matt does not have room for tonight.

The ride to the airport is barely twenty minutes, especially this late at night, but ten minutes into it Matt wants another round of the good drugs and his own bed. What he gets is Jarrs slipping into his seat.

“Hey,” he says quietly. The interior lights are off, and the guys have settled down quick, so Matt keeps his voice low too.

“What’s up?” he asks stiffly.

Jarrs shifts in the seat. “Sorry, um. Sorry I didn’t come find you, after.”

Matt’s chest tightens. “Yeah. I waited for you.”

“Shears told me. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t really need a cool down tonight. You know?”

He didn’t want to celebrate his shutout with Matt, is what he means. “That’s fine, whatever. Just tell me next time so I’m not waiting around.” It comes out sharper than he wants, and he shrugs to soften his words a little. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Jarrs answers, already shoving back to his feet. “I’ll see you.”

Matt exhales a short laugh as Jarrs disappears back down the aisle. Across from him, Tanger watches him go, then gives Matt a weird look, top to bottom. Searching. Matt digs his headphones out of his pack and fits them over his ears. He mostly succeeds at ignoring Tanger’s attention, both gratified and irritated that he has it now. And irritated that he’s gratified. He tugs his hood up and slouches into his seat.

*

Jarrs takes the next game as easily has he did the first one in Buffalo. Back-to-back and only one goal against. The guys crowd around him, loud and shovey with their affection, and Matt retreats to the cool-down room, jittery and wound tonight, knee bouncing as he waits. He doesn’t need a nap this time.

He doesn’t have long to wait.

Jarrs actually bounds into the room in his sweats, grinning and just as pleased with himself as he deserves to be. Matt pushes to his feet. 

“Hey, great game tonight,” he says again. They’d bumped fists as the team had filed off the ice, but Tristan should hear it again. Flower was never stingy with his praise, so Matt’s not gonna be that guy, either.

“Thanks,” Jarrs says and laughs. He sticks his hand out, and when Matt clasps it, Jarrs pulls him in for a quick bro hug.

“What do you need?” Matt asks when he pulls back, gesturing at the cool-down room. They’re much better-outfitted at PPG—carpets over fake-wood flooring, walls painted a warmer gold color and a stocked fridge in the corner. 

Jarrs shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to tell you, so you didn’t wait around. I’m good. Thanks, though. Uh, some of the guys are going out—you wanna come?”

Matt grabs his crutches from where they lean against the wall to hide the confusion of his own emotions. Should he be more disappointed than he is? Should he be less insulted? Tristan’s not even a year younger than him, but Matt feels super old right then. Which is his own bullshit. It’s obviously bullshit. But the fact that he can barely hobble around isn’t helping, so he shakes his head. “No, you go ‘head. Have fun,” he says, like a grandpa. 

“Cool.” Jarrs darts a quick, uneasy glance around the room and gets the hell out, leaving Matt to follow at his much slower place. 

*

They lose to the Rangers next, and it’s not a blowout, but letting in four goals will never not suck. Jarrs tells him ‘no’ then, too. He doesn’t even want to talk any of it through. 

Matt gets that, at least. Dwelling on goals he might want back won’t make him a better goaltender. And Flower was the same. He didn’t dwell—he moved on. After Matt’s losses, though, Matt still wanted to be alone with Flower. Not to dwell, but to move on with him. Talk and joke and, yeah, lots of times get off. No better way to clear his head of a garbage game than a quick fuck and a snack after with Flower.

But when they hold on to beat the Isles in OT two days later, and Jarrs keeps clear of him again after their customary good-job fist bump, Matt gets out his phone.

He sits alone in the cool-down room and stares at the text he just wrote. _Hey. Were we weird?_

He sends it before he can think too much about it. He’s never censored himself with Flower. The reply comes quickly enough that Matt can’t help smiling, Marc-Andre still there for him all the way across the country.

_Everybody is weird, matty. You know that._

_Yeah but. Were we different from other goalie situations you had?_ he sends back.

That answer takes a while to arrive. While he waits, Matt rocks his hips against the mattress, the stretch in his groin starting to feel more like working a tired muscle group instead of a hurt one. The longer Flower takes to respond, the more obvious his answer is.

 _I think so, yeah_ , he finally writes. _Not weird. Just…you weren’t close to the Wilkes guys. Just me. I worried a little sometimes._

Matt frowns. _You were my mentor. I was close to you._ He wants to be that for Jarrs, however that looks for them, but Jarrs will hardly talk to him.

Of course, Marc was close with everybody else, too—friends with everybody. Joking and laughing and bringing the whole room up. It’s a lot for Matt to live up to, but before he gets there, he needs to at least make it work with Tristan.

 _I know_ , Flower answers. _Do you have anybody you can go to now Nemo’s gone?_

 _I’m fine_ , he sends back. _You did good. I’m good._ The last thing he wants is for Flower to worry that he can’t handle himself in Pittsburgh alone. The few times he tried a cool-down with Nemo nearly put him off the idea altogether. Nemo’s head was never in it, and Matt’s was two thousand miles to the west or a year in the past, looking for Flower in everything Nemo did. 

He did not measure up, and Flower doesn’t ever need to know that. Better to just leave it.

_Take it easy on yourself, matty. You have time._

The frown eases from Matt’s face, and he props his heels up on the edge of the bedframe, debating how to answer that. He feels a little tenderized, by himself in this cool-down room, waiting for someone who isn’t coming and doesn’t need him the way Matt so clearly needed Flower. He hadn’t known it was so odd, what he and Flower had. He kind of wishes Flower had clued him in a little sooner.

A knock at the door startles him, snapping his spine straight. “Yeah,” he calls. “Come on in—oh.”

It’s not Jarrs standing in the open doorway, come to tell him he’s good and doesn’t need anything tonight. It’s the captain. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Matt asks, setting his phone to the side. 

Sid walks into the room like he owns it. “Not a lot,” he answers. “Just wanted to check in. Haven’t seen you much these last few games. Off the ice, I mean.”

“I’ve been around,” he says, not sure if he should feel defensive. “Mostly here—tryin’ to give Jarrs his space and be here for him if he wants, now that he’s starting, you know?” He makes it an offer and a question, because Sid came here looking for something.

“How’s that going? He’s settling in all right?”

He’s got his media face on, which is a little insulting, and either means he thinks Matt still gets intimidated by him, or there’s bad news coming. 

So Matt gives it to him straight. “Your guess is as good as mine. He doesn’t tell me shit.”

Sid takes that in with a nod. “You know, he reminds me of you a little bit.”

“For real?” Matt frowns again, and Sid’s media face cracks into one of his not-very-Canadian smiles. 

“Yeah, I mean—you guys are so similar, right. You drive the same trucks, and you both have big dogs. You must be tight.”

Matt groans, but it turns quickly to a laugh. “You read that?”

“That one I read, yes.” He comes the rest of the way in the room but leaves the door open, stopping far enough away that Matt doesn’t have to look up too far. He isn’t used to looking up at Sid at all. 

“How are you feeling?” Sid asks.

Glancing down briefly, Matt rubs a hand over his thigh. “Better. Much better. It’s healing up quick now.”

“That’s good to hear—we need you back out there.”

Matt nods, and the way his throat gets thick, he needed to hear _that_.

“What else is there?” Sid presses. There’s kindness in his voice, behind the firm expectation that he get an answer.

Taking a slow breath, Matt looks up at him, and maybe it’s something in his face, but Sid takes another two steps closer. Matt cranes his neck back to properly see his captain. They don’t do this, ever, but Sid takes other guys through cool down all the time. Mostly forwards, but Matt is his responsibility, too, even though he’s sidelined.

Matt drops his gaze first, and it’s harder than it should be. He didn’t get where he is because he respects team hierarchy too much. But this time, when he tips his head forward, it’s like somebody’s finally let go of his strings. The muscles at the back of his neck stretch like they’ve been bunched up for weeks.

At the feel of Sid’s hand there, it’s all Matt can do to keep that thick feeling in his throat from coming out messy. He presses up into Sid’s palm on an inhale, and tension melts from his spine on the exhale, his hands nearly slipping off his knees where he’s braced against them. “Shit.”

Sid scratches his fingers through the short hairs at the back of his skull, and Matt shivers hard.

The warmth of Sid’s palm and the strength in his grip sends Matt back to last season. To this room, with Flower right here, with him every step. 

“I don’t know what to do about Jarrs,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if I can help him—or if he even needs it.”

“Hmm,” Sid answers. He tugs gently, and Matt goes the rest of the way, resting his forehead against Sid’s stomach. He anchors a hand at Sid’s waist and breathes there for several moments, eyes closed. “I don’t know too much about goalies,” Sid says, and his voice rumbles in Matt’s skull.

Matt huffs before he can stop himself. “Your best friend, your sister, and your dad are goalies.”

“Yeah, but you guys are your own animal. That’s, like, a truth of the universe. So what’s your gut tell you about Jarrs?”

Matt presses back against Sid’s hand, and he lets him up without comment. Rolling his neck, Matt doesn’t have to think long on his answer. “One of these games, he’s going to need backup. Everybody does. I just want him to know that.”

Sid considers this. “Maybe he thinks you don’t, so he shouldn’t.”

“I had Flower,” Matt says, gaze darting sharply to Sid’s.

Sid shrugs. “You haven’t since he’s been up. And he never did. What were you guys like in Wilkes?”

Matt hides a wince. “Not tight.” He likes to think he’s learned a few things since then, and at least eighty percent of them have been how to relate to the guys he’s competing with for time in the net. That Flower enjoys talking to him at all these days is down to…everything that Flower taught him. Not just professionalism, but getting out of his own head and seeing things from somebody else’s skates once in a while.

“Wilkes was different,” he finally says. “Mostly prospects. The coaches were there for us more than any vets.” Back in Wilkes with Tristan, Matt was not super committed to building confidence and poise in the crease with a partner. There was no foxhole mentality like Rusty and Shearsy, Willy, and Knuckles had shared. Matt wanted to make it out first. And he had.

“I get that,” Sid answers. “Maybe Jarrs doesn’t know it’s different up here yet.”

Matt shrugs, dubious. “Maybe.” He’s made himself available in ways he never did back east. Tried to let Jarrs know they’re a team here. Jarrs might be a rookie, but he’s not so oblivious he wouldn’t see that.

“Or maybe he just needs to know you need backup sometimes too.” 

Matt glances up, then away, a little too much Captain in Sid’s voice for his comfort. Even with the warmth from his hand still heating the back of Matt’s neck.

“We’re here for each other, Murr, not just developing rookies. If you ever need…”

“I gotta get back in a game first,” Matt says quickly. His pulse kicks and warms his face, but he remembers what Flower taught him. Grace. Gratitude. 

_”Sometimes people want to help you, Matty. And they don’t want anything back.”_

_“They always want something back.”_

_“Okay, is that always bad?”_

Matt clears his throat. “Thank you, though. And, uh. Likewise.” He looks Sid in the eye for that part and rises to his feet, taking comfort in his height. 

Sid steps back and backs down, a smile softening his expression. “Give it time.”

“Yeah.” That seems to the theme of the season so far.

They leave the room together, and it isn’t until they clear the doorway that Matt realizes they had an audience. Tanger leans against the opposite wall with his arms across his chest, a familiar frown tugging on his eyebrows. 

“Oh, did you need me tonight?” Sid asks, as casual with his generosity as ever. It gets Matt’s back up the way Flower’s never did. Which makes no sense.

Tanger darts a look at Matt like he’s maybe…embarrassed? Disappointed? “Yeah. I’ll follow you.”

“Sure.” Sid claps him on the arm as he passes, but Tanger stays put, giving Matt some kind of look. 

“Is there something you want to say to me?” Matt asks, not caring that it comes out bitchy. Sid glances once over his shoulder, but Tanger said he would follow, and he obviously trusts him to do that, because he rounds a corner and leaves them.

Alone with Kris, Matt doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He almost mirror’s Tanger’s posture but shoves his hands in his suit-pants pockets instead, flushing again. Tanger looks him up and down, and his eyes catch there at Matt’s pockets before he looks Matt full in the face and smirks. 

“No,” he says and walks away.

*

Jarrs gets lit up in the first against Toronto—three goals on sixteen shots. They’re not all his fault—the team is flat in front of him—but Matt watches him storm off the ice from the box and knows Jarrs won’t see it that way. This is his time to prove himself, but Matt can smell a goalie change in the second from here.

He hasn’t gone to the locker room between periods for most of Tristan’s starts except when he’s got some uniquely helpful observation, because he knows Buck has the situation handled. Also, it sucked to walk there for a bit. He questions the wisdom of the decision to go this time, but he does so on his way down, the choice already made. 

He finds Tristan hunched over in his pads, red-faced and silent. Casey is warming up in the hall. 

The truth is, it’s one game in December. It’s one period in December, and by all rights, Tristan should have another shot, but the decision to pull him isn’t _about_ him. So who gives a fuck. 

He says none of that, however, because it is neither unique nor helpful to Tristan in this moment. Matt drops down onto the vacant seat next to him and doesn’t really listen to Sully’s barked-out instructions for the next period, or to Sid’s softer ones. 

He waits until the talking is done and regards Tristan in his periphery. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” Tristan tells him, voice only just audible. 

Matt shifts one shoulder forward in a shrug. “I know.” That doesn’t mean he’s leaving.

But slowly, like a stick just starting to slide along the wall, Tristan tips his shoulder against Matt’s. He’s bulky and huge in his pads, but Matt has never had trouble translating emotion from inside them.

When the team reassembles for the second period, Tristan pulls a Pens cap on over his hair while Matt holds his helmet. He says quietly, without looking at Matt, “Can I meet you after?”

Matt blinks and tries to smooth the surprise from his expression. “Yeah. Definitely, yeah.” He manages to not embarrass himself in the locker room, he thinks, but on the way up to the press box, he punches the air like he just won a shootout.

Casey holds his own in goal for a near-comeback, but Matt is relieved the game doesn’t go to OT. He half-expects Tristan to bail on him as it is—to have gained enough perspective on his bad period that he thinks he doesn’t need Matt after the game. In Tristan’s position, feeling about Matt the way he’s sure Tristan does, and especially if the team had pulled off a win, Matt would probably bail. 

In anticipation of this, he hangs around the locker room as the guys finish press and head to the showers. He won’t wait in a cool-down room again. 

When nearly everyone has cleared out, Tristan approaches, uneasily glancing over his shoulder toward the showers. “Did you not want to?” he asks. “If you changed your mind, that’s cool.”

Matt relaxes. “I didn’t.”

“I guess you usually wait for me in a room, is all.”

“Yeah, I wait and you don’t come,” he bites out by reflex.

Tristan nods, shoulders hunching a little. “I know. Can we go now?”

Matt gestures for Tristan to lead the way without touching him. “Sorry, yeah.” He reminds himself to be kind. Always kind. The reminder comes to him with Flower’s voice and inflection.

He waits for Tristan to set the tone of the cool down, making zero assumptions by now. And sure enough, Tristan takes one of the chairs instead of the bed. Matt lowers himself into the other, Tristan watching him carefully. 

“You’re coming back soon,” he says. There’s no question in his voice.

Matt rubs his thigh. “I hope so. Another game yet, anyway.”

Tristan nods, crosses his feet at the ankles, and presses his hands against his knees. “Cool. I don’t wanna hook up with you, is the thing.” He says it like they’ve already started this conversation. No question there, either.

“All right,” Matt says warily, though he can’t pretend he’s surprised. 

“I should’ve just told you from the beginning. I don’t like the expectation that it’s supposed to help us.” He glances up at Matt, looking for understanding. Matt dips his chin in a quick nod.

“All right,” he says again. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“You don’t believe me?”

Tristan shrugs uneasily. “It seems like that’s the norm here. For chemistry, for cool downs and warmups, for good games and bad games—you and me are supposed to be, like, all in each other’s business.”

Matt looks around the room, seeing it the way Tristan must have every time he came to let Matt off the hook for a cool down. “Kinda hard not to be. We’re partners.”

“I know,” Tristan says quickly. “And I know you and Flower were really tight like that, but I don’t think that would be good for me. You or me. I don’t want to work it through. Or fuck it better, or whatever. Not with you.” 

Matt tries very hard not to feel that like a slap across the face. “Is it because we weren’t close down in Wilkes?” He was a different guy there. A kid—a self-absorbed kid. He can’t be sorry about that, because it got him here. It got him Flower. Fuck, it got him two Cups. But if he can’t pay that forward—

“No, I liked it.” Tristan looks at him with his blue eyes wide, like they and he want Matt to understand they mean what they’re saying. “We pushed each other. I loved working with you and Buck back then.”

Matt straightens in his chair. “I didn’t know that.” They were competitors. Kids soaking up life as professional hockey players. All the guts and glory of sleeper buses, sitting back-up in the hallway because there’s no room on the bench, and apartments with no art or even a good couch.

“Well, you didn’t talk to me very much.” Tristan smiles at him. His smile has edges. “I don’t think you really thought about me except beating me out for ice time.” 

It’s true. But that’s not his role anymore. He made it, so he doesn’t have to do that. He’s pretty sure on that count. He thought he was sure.

Tristan looks him in the eye now, more confident even than after his shutout in Buffalo. “I don’t want you to feel responsible for me, like Flower was for you. You don’t have to be him for me.”

Matt exhales a sharp, humorless laugh. He grips the arm of his chair to stay steady. “All right. Who do you want me to be, then?”

Tristan shrugs and smiles, like he hasn’t just unraveled Matt’s entire identity this season. “Do you like video games?”

Matt tries and fails to keep from making a face. “No.”

“Movies?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tristan’s face falls. 

And just because he doesn’t want Matt to be Flower doesn’t mean he doesn’t want Matt to be Matt. Apparently he liked Matt just the way he was. And they should share more than a truck type and dog size. Matt consciously relaxes his grip on the chair arm.

 _Be kind. Always kind. Gracious and grateful._ Sure, Flower. Piece of cake.

“I like food.”

Now Tristan’s expression twists. “Cooking?”

“God, no. Eating out. Ethnic food. There’s a new Vietnamese place in Squirrel Hill I wanna try.”

Tristan’s smile is easy and bright this time. “Cool. We should go.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Matt shifts in his chair. It’s plenty comfy and close enough to the bed that he can prop his feet up. “You know, for what it’s worth, I thought you shoulda had another crack at second period.”

“Man, me too.” Tristan huffs and reaches down into the mini fridge on his other side. He comes out with a Gatorade and raises an eyebrow at Matt.

“Water, actually. Please.” 

Tristan tosses him a bottle, then puts his feet up on the bed too. He drinks deeply and wipes his mouth. “That sucked. I was really fucking pissed Sully pulled the plug.” He says it and shoots Matt a guilty smile. They’re allowed to talk shit here. That’s the point of a cool down. What kind of backup would Matt be if Tristan couldn’t trust him with this?

“I woulda been, too.”

Tristan heaves a dramatic sigh. “But I don’t really give a shit now. It’s over, and I’ll be better next time. Moving on, right?”

Matt raises his water bottle in a mock-toast. “Moving on.”

~

That was the year I was thirty  
That was the year you were thirty-one  
That was the year that we lost, or we won


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the Vegas game from this December! Which I have yet to recover from! End notes contain some visual inspiration. Thank you for reading and sharing in all my Matt Murray feelings! Feel free to share yours with me too!
> 
> Also, tip o' the hat to sparcck for a couple visuals from this chapter. Thank you for being our eyes on the ground. <3

“Holy shit, you’re tan.”

As greetings after long separations go, it’s not his best. But “Hi, Flower” was unacceptable. And when Marc turns to him with that grin, Matt forgets what he was saying anyway.

“Hello to you, too. Holy fuck, you’re pale!” Flower’s smile behind his mask is so bright and wide, Matt doesn’t quite know what to do here on Vegas ice. His first game back and Flower’s second. Laugh with him? Cry? Admit that he was probably a little in love those two seasons?

He makes a judgment call and says, “Shit, I’ve missed you.” 

Flower’s smile softens, just the way Matt knew it would. “Me too, Matty.”

“I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“I know. You told me that on Monday.”

Matt shoves him gently. “Well, telling you in person is way better.”

Flower laughs and pats his arm with his glove. “Yeah, it is. And thank you. I’m glad you’re back too. Hell of a thing, right?” He gestures around the arena at the crowd filing in, fans already at the glass for warmup, waving their _Fleury est notre roi!_ signs.

“Hell of a thing,” Matt confirms. 

He didn’t get an invite to dinner the night before. He didn’t expect one, but it had circulated quickly that Flower was picking up Tanger and Sid from the hotel for something quiet. A bunch of the guys were going out themselves, and Matt hadn’t wanted to sit in his room feeling sorry for himself, so he tagged along. Walking out of the hotel parking lot, he could swear he spotted Flower rolling up with Perron, but he hadn’t stared. Instead he caught up with Shearsy, who was tasked with keeping Rusty from detouring into a casino.

As much as he would love to have had the extra time last night, it’s almost better seeing Flower here on the ice, in his full battle armor. A Knight. For the first time since the team name and logo were announced, Matt feels like they fit. This team was made for Marc-Andre.

It’s impossible to really hug in all their gear, so Matt does his best, patting Flower’s shoulder and swatting his ass with his blocker. He knocks his head gently against Marc’s, helmet thunking against his. The first they’ve been on the ice together, not backing the other up. “Good luck out there tonight.”

Flower’s grin sharpens. “You too. You’re gonna need it.”

*

Life does come at you fast. It’s Tanger’s voice in his head that first period reminding him of this. It takes him a minute and forty-one seconds to remember that he doesn’t like James Neal here any more than he did in Nashville. Less perhaps. That chip on his shoulder hasn’t shrunk since he was traded from the Penguins—it may now be the size of Nevada.

The game is so much faster down on the ice than watching up in the box. He was only out for two weeks, but the rust is real.

Though to be fair, his team doesn’t help him out much offensively, and by the middle of the second, Matt sees why. They are freaking the fuck out. Sid may never shoot the puck again. Geno skates in angry circles and gets nowhere. Tanger gives away the puck every time he carries it into the offensive zone, then circles back, furious and spooked. The young guys and new guys try to make up for it, but nobody can string a play together.

Flower, on the other hand, plays with the kind of flash he usually reserves for games he’s leading by three and looking to score in. 

Matt is thrilled about it, honestly, but they are supposed to at least try to win here. 

When the crowd isn’t shaking the rafters with cheers for their new team and their brilliant goaltender, Matt can hear him laughing and swearing at the other end of the ice. The building goes nuts when he comes way out of his crease to poke the puck away from Shearsy, sliding in with controlled chaos and nearly taking Conor out at the knees. 

Matt barks a laugh before he can help it but gets his shit together when Flower’s clear springs a breakaway. Matt meets it at the top of his crease, a scramble of guys along with the puck getting behind him. Tanger collides with him, just managing to clear the puck between a guy’s legs before he falls on the goal line. Phil grabs it and takes off, and Tanger spends a little time getting to his feet.

“Nice save,” Matt tells him by reflex, before he considers who he’s talking to. “I owe you one.” He keeps an eye on the play at the other end and presses against Tanger’s side as he gets up.

“Yeah, you do,” Tanger grumbles, reaching back to shove him in the chest. It’s…maybe the least attitude he’s flung at Matt all season.

They lose 2-1, fair and square, which means Matt hasn’t won one for himself in a while, but he gets second star of the night, and jostling Flower on his way out for first star, he can’t even regret it. Marc’s happiness shines larger than life on the jumbotron, and Matt lingers on the runway to watch him take his turn around the ice. 

He grins at Matt on his way back in. “Take care of those idiots for me,” he says, and Matt feels almost a foot taller for that.

His chest fills with complicated joy, and all he can say is, “I will.”

Back in the room, the press is grilling Sid on what it felt like to shoot on his best friend of over a decade. He’s handling it, and Matt will too. He feels good about that responsibility tonight. None of the other guys seem too bent out of shape about the loss now that it’s over, just a little subdued. Tristan, already out of his sweater and chest gear, waddles over and offers Matt his hand for a shake and bro hug.

“All right?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Matt answers, clasping his arm. God’s honest truth. “Thanks.”

Which is when Tanger stomps by and clips his shoulder like some douche at a bar, and Matt… Matt has had enough of this business. Whatever’s going on with his team’s play and his personal record, he feels solid tonight, so he snatches Tanger’s shirt before he’s out of reach and stops him in his tracks. 

“Hey.”

Tanger turns and looks pointedly down to where Matt has him by the elbow.

“I think you do have something to say to me,” Matt says before Kris can speak. “Meet me in a room, yeah? I’ll be there in a minute.”

He doesn’t say it loud, and Tristan made himself scarce as soon as Matt grabbed for Tanger’s shirt, but there are eyes on him—on them. Kris darts a look around the room, then back to Matt. 

_Take care of those idiots for me._

“Fine,” Kris says and shrugs his arm free from Matt’s grip. “Hurry up. We don’t have much time.” Then, scowling, he does exactly as Matt tells him. 

Matt breezes through his press, giving the beat guys exactly what they’re after— _I told him I miss him. I told him I was happy for him and grateful for everything he did for me_. Telling the truth should always be so easy. 

After, he tracks down the neat row of cool-down rooms in an adjoining hallway. The arena is brand new, so the rooms are outfitted with crisp, clean furniture. To this day, Joe Louis Arena remains the most well-used facility he’s ever been in, the rooms all random, repurposed supply closets, the surfaces scrubbed down so many times everything was worn thin and soft. It’s nice to think these rooms have seen a fraction of what those have. Hygienically and emotionally.

The first one he passes, he catches Horny lifting Hags against the wall, ankles crossed at his back. Exhibitionists to the end, they don’t even bother to partially close the door. Horny always did need a long cool down after low-scoring games. The second door is mostly shut, and through the crack he can hear Phil charming a laugh out of Geno. The next two are empty, but in the last one, he finds Tanger pacing. Matt pauses in the doorway and takes a deep breath. He holds onto the feeling of Marc looking at him with complete confidence. 

Tanger spots him there and stops. He gives Matt that same look of the last few weeks, like he’s weighing or evaluating. Matt’s ready for it this time. 

“That fucked me up,” Kris tells him. “That game. I hated it, and you were laughing. I heard you.”

Matt shrugs carefully. He comes the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door behind them. “I had fun. I’ve never played with Flower in a game before. You got to do it all the time.”

“But we weren’t with him,” Kris bites out. “We played against him. And fucking lost.”

“It didn’t feel that way to me.”

“Well, you—” 

He, what? He was doing hockey wrong? But Kris doesn’t finish, just clamps his jaw shut and glares some more.

“You can say it. Go ‘head. You’ve had a problem with me all year.”

“Longer than that,” Tanger practically spits, mouth pulling into a mean smirk. 

“I get why, man,” Matt presses. “But if you don’t give me a chance—”

Kris laughs, a sharp, bursting sound. “A chance? You don’t need chances from me. You took all of them! You stole two Cups from him. _Two!_ Do you know what that means to somebody playing as long as him? Everything he went through for this team? All the shitty coaching and bad press, and your _first_ two seasons, you take that from him. Why should I have to give you more chances?” 

That lands like a punch, and Tanger knows it. Matt almost retreats a step and checks his lip for blood.

“Because,” he says, collecting himself. “Because I earned them. For two years, I earned them.” 

Kris snorts and rolls his eyes with every bit of spite he saves for bad reffing. “You played tonight like you’re glad he’s gone. Like you’re just good friends now, and isn’t that nice. He _made_ you.” 

It’s a dirty hit, but Kris doesn’t back down. And Matt’s having trouble hanging onto that feeling. _Take care of those idiots for me_. Right, okay. 

“That’s not fair,” he manages. “I would’ve done anything to keep him here.”

“Anything but back him up.” Kris lifts his chin. “Anything but tell Coach he deserved to play.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”

“I know you could have tried.”

“I _am_ trying.” It’s the only move he has. “Every fucking day, I try to do what he’d do and be what he was for you.” But telling Kris the truth isn’t as easy as it was for the beats. Matt sees what’s coming. He just wishes he could get out of the way. 

Kris leans into it. “Stop. Trying. You will never be him. Nobody wants you to be. Not Jarrs, not Sid. Nobody.”

Matt gives in and looks away first, fists loose at his sides. If he weren’t fucking exhausted, he could go down the hall and ask Marc himself, _“I was something before you, wasn’t I?”_ Something more than a weedy, pimply kid with ambition and dumb t-shirts?

Did everyone on his team still see that kid when they looked at him? All the ways he isn’t and can never be Marc-Andre Fleury—just the cheaper knockoff Marc made of him and left in his place?

Matt breathes into the hurt of these questions for several seconds. And Kris lets him. They stand a few feet apart and recover. But somebody has to end this, and Matt would like it to go in his favor after all this work. He imagines pressing up off the ropes, swaying. He imagines dropping his gloves and leaving his knuckles bare.

In reality, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head. He lets it drop to the floor and stands there in his sweats, bare to the waist. Tanger blinks at him. 

“I’m getting that, thanks,” Matt finally says. “Message fucking received.” He can never be Flower. But Tanger _will_ look at what he is if he has to barricade the door and hold his head still. 

He’s still too slim, but there’s muscle in his shoulders and chest that he worked all summer to put there. He’s stronger and healthier, and his skin has finally, finally cleared up. He’s proud of the way he looks and what his body has helped him accomplish. Though no one would tell him he’s ever in his life been short on pride. Least of all Tanger. 

Pot, meet Kettle.

Tanger sees him, now. Nobody else to look at—all that judgment and accusation in his eyes aimed at the middle of Matt’s chest. It lights Matt up from the inside so the chill of the room fades. Kris takes a step closer, unsteady like his knees had locked. 

“That game really fucked me up,” he says again. 

“I know.”

“He was my best friend, and I couldn’t even look at him.” 

Now is not the time for a conversation about maintaining friendships outside hockey—Sid gets that job—but Matt recognizes an apology when he hears one. He starts to take a step toward Kris, but Kris does it for him, getting in his space and pressing a hand firmly in the middle of his chest. He pushes, and Matt comes up short against the door.

“How long since you had anyone?” Kris asks.

Matt exhales sharply with the steady pressure on his breastbone. “You know how long.”

Kris scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You think you’re above everybody else. It drives me crazy. You’re either part of this team or you aren’t.”

“No, it just never occurred to me to want anybody but him.” 

Kris stares at him, then laughs out loud, startling Matt nearly as much as his own honesty. “Man, don’t ever tell him that.”

Matt shrugs, smiling a little at Kris’s laughter. “Pretty sure he already knows.”

“Yeah. Lucky fucker.” Kris lowers his hand, and in one smooth motion, strips out of his under-armor. He stands in front of Matt, thick and strong and really fucking hairy. And just as proud.

“What are you looking for?”

Matt shrugs again and shakes his head. “Fuck if I know.” Time limit hanging over their heads, he puts his hand on Kris’s waist and traces across his front, from his left hipbone to his right. He’s solid as a brick wall. “You?”

Kris’s stomach goes even tighter under Matt’s hand. “I used to have Flower after games, before your call-up. Did you know that?” 

Matt shakes his head. Add it to the list of reasons Kris hates his guts.

“He disappeared when you came.”

“That’s not true. He was here for every game.” Matt will take the blame for a lot with Flower, but not everything. Not this.

“He was here, but he disappeared in this room with you.” Kris points at the four walls. “I want to know what the fuck is so great. What did he know that I don’t?”

It sounds like a setup for disappointment. Matt isn’t sure anyone but Flower has ever liked him. Still, he shivers hard at the feel of Tanger’s hands on him, gripping right at the indent of his waist. He’s not built as square as the other guys on the team, and Kris looks down at his hands like he’s fascinated with that shape, thumbing the bottom of Matt’s ribcage. 

“How’s the groin?” he asks, matter-of-fact and professional. 

Matt struggles to hide a grin. “Good to go.”

Tanger’s smirk is shitty and hot as hell. “Cleared for contact?”

“Oh my god.”

*

It feels like ages since anyone has touched him like this. Like he’s worth fucking with skill. Worth impressing. 

Not that he’s really hooked up since Flower left. Or given anyone the opportunity to ask him. He tries not to think about Nemo and hopes he’s in a better situation now.

He’s not thinking about anything once Kris muscles him onto his back, pushes his thighs open wide, and sucks him down. Sensation is all that registers—the silkiness of Tanger’s hair under his hand and the warm suction of his mouth, the roughness of his palm across Matt’s stomach. The teasing tightness of his throat and the pressure of blunt fingers against his ass. He feels nailed in place, paralyzed by how good it is. Orgasm builds at the base of his spine like he hasn’t jerked off in weeks.

When it stops, he makes an animal noise of complaint and shoves up on one elbow to see Kris dripping lube into his hand to slick himself up. He jerks off there sitting back on his heels, watching Matt and looking hungry. “And you,” he grunts, tilting his chin at Matt’s spit-shiny dick. But before Matt can get a good grip on himself, Kris ducks under his legs and folds him in half. One knee hooked over Tanger’s shoulders, Matt falls back against the mattress. His knuckles brush Kris’s down between their bodies and he steadies himself with his other hand at Kris’s throat.

“Gonna fuck you,” Kris grunts, voice rumbling against Matt’s palm.

They don’t have the time or the setup for that, exactly, but then Kris lets go of his own dick so they’re lined up and slick, and Matt catches his meaning. He moans at the perfect slide of Kris grinding against him, all that hair giving him just the right friction along his cock and balls and just behind. The way he’s spread open and held, they may as well be fucking. Kris braces one elbow on the mattress by Matt’s shoulder, digs his fingers into Matt’s hair, and tugs.

They’ve shifted and inched their way to the edge of the bed, far enough that Matt’s head hangs just over the side, neck arched with the weight of Kris’s hand in his hair. The breath rushes audibly through his throat, and it feels so good, he can’t even talk. He can’t fit his hand around Kris’s thick waist when he tries to brace himself. Kris’s torso presses him down, and his arms box him in so the only thing to do is let go, Kris’s weight and rhythm holding him down and taking him over the edge. 

The sharp pinch of teeth between his neck and shoulder jolts him at the height of it, pain and pleasure mingling in his voice in a way he’d never explored with Flower.

It leaves him shaky and on the verge of completely disintegrating and slipping off the side of the bed, after, when Kris wraps his arm across his thighs and hauls him back to safety. Then he drops down next to him with a deeply satisfied groan.

His stomach covered in spunk, Matt flops his hand out for the tissues beside the bed and does a cursory wipe-up. Sleep spreads like a blanket in his mind, pulling him down quick. 

“You shouldn’t go so long next time,” Kris mumbles beside him. “Not healthy.” He brushes his knuckles along that dip in Matt’s waist he seems to like so well, and Matt twitches, just shy of ticklish there.

“Just picky, I guess,” he answers and curls toward him. He rests with his head against Kris’s shoulder and enjoys more than he should the way Kris gathers him back in.

On the edge of a nap, he wonders fuzzily if this means Kris Letang is his type. He wonders if Kris Letang now thinks he’s Matt’s type, too. He cracks an eye open to see Kris regarding him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. 

A sharp knock at the door and a shouted, “Ten minutes!” jolts them both and clears the sleep out of Matt’s brain.

“Shit.” Shoving upright, he collects his underwear and sweatpants from the bottom of the bed. 

“Don’t worry, they won’t leave without us,” Kris says, a smile in his voice. But he sits up too, not bothering with underwear when he kicks into his pants. Calculating the length of the shower he can take before they’re hustled onto the bus for a flight to Glendale, the only answer Matt can come up with is _short_.

“I’ve gotta clean up,” he says, shoving off the bed.

“Do it in my room.”

“What?” Tugging on his damp Pens t-shirt, he turns to see Kris giving him a familiar mulish look. Dressed only in his cropped sweatpants, with his hair all fucked up, it’s not particularly menacing.

“Or I’ll come to yours. Whatever. The flight is only an hour, I think.”

“My…hotel room? In Glendale?”

“Yeah, that’s where we’re going.”

“Why would you do that?”

Kris snorts and shakes his head. “No fucking reason. Never mind.” Bending over the end of the bed, he snatches up his socks and yanks them on his feet. “Take your fucking shower.”

“You want to come to my room tonight?”

“You’re wasting all these seconds, Matty.”

At the sound of that name spoken in that way, Matt goes very still. Maybe realizing his mistake, Kris rises to his feet. He lifts his chin in defiance.

“You can’t be him, either, you know,” Matt says. “You can’t say all that shit to me, then call me that, and invite yourself to my room.”

Kris gives him a brittle shrug, for the first time looking smaller than his size. “It’s just a name. You don’t like it?”

“I don’t—have time for this.” As dressed as he needs to be, Matt yanks the door open and escapes. The last thing he wants is to put a goddamn suit back on, but rules are rules. He leaves Kris to follow whenever the hell he wants and re-enters the chaos of a rapidly emptying locker room. Doors slamming and equipment guys zipping up gear bags, he bypasses the showers as a lost cause and strips to his underwear again before climbing back into his suit. The skin across his stomach feels tight and giving himself a sniff while he pulls on a clean white t-shirt, he stinks like game sweat and sex.

He doesn’t ever have to tell anyone he likes it. And, well, drycleaners exist for a reason. This will hardly be the first time a cool down has run over before load-out. 

But hustling out of the arena that night, he doesn’t feel cooled off. Tanger makes it onto the bus about ten seconds before it pulls away, his buttons done wrong and his shirt untucked. He throws his shit haphazardly into an overhead compartment and drops down into the seat right across the isle from Matt. 

Matt goes for his headphones like always, and doesn’t look his way. And unlike Kris, he certainly doesn’t indicate to the entire team that ten minutes ago he was naked and sex-stupid.

But for the short ride out to the airport, Matt can’t escape that room, turning Kris’s invitation over and over until it wears smooth and he can’t remember its original shape. Why did he want Matt to come to his room? Or to come to Matt’s? Another round? Of sex or blame for Flower’s departure? Flower had never invited Matt to his room. That’s what team facilities were for. But Kris doesn’t seem to have those same boundaries. He’s gone home with Sid a bunch. He used to with Dales. Dumo and Olli have both taken him into a cool down before.

Kris had wanted to know what Flower saw in him. Maybe this was just that. Maybe he always had more to work through than could fit in their restricted road schedule.

That seems the most reasonable explanation. And Matt certainly doesn’t owe him that if he doesn’t want… fuck, if he doesn’t want to get really fucking laid after months and months of missing his best friend and mentor?

He almost takes out his phone. Almost texts Flower, _What do you think? What should I do?_ But then they’re at the airport and everyone’s piling off the bus, and because of he and Kris, their schedule is tight. Walking through the terminal to their gate, Matt makes use of his longer legs and catches up. Tanger at least managed to fix his buttons on the bus. Unsure what to say, he goes for discreet but direct.

“How ‘bout mine?”

Kris is still sorting shit in his bag as he walks and the look he gives Matt is cooler than the one from the room at the arena. But he nods and angles himself so he walks just behind and to Matt’s right as they cross the tarmac and board their plane. When Matt has dropped into his usual seat toward the front, Kris slots in next to him. He wordlessly offers to put Matt’s bag up for him, so he hands it over, leaving his phone and earbuds inside. So, fuck it, he’ll either sleep or converse on this flight. There are worse things.

Kris passes out as soon as the wheels are up, so that answers that question. Since Matt didn’t get that nap he was so obviously headed toward earlier, he pillows his jacket against the window and follows quickly after.

*

This time, when the door shuts and locks behind them, Kris doesn’t have any devastating things to say about Matt’s place on the team, earned or otherwise. He drops his carry-on and tries to pick Matt up right there. And it would be hot if his legs weren’t so long that Kris only succeeds in lifting him to his toes.

“Fuck, you’re tall,” he grumbles and walks Matt backward to the bed, his arms tight around Matt’s waist. 

“Well.” It’s the truth. Then, “Shit!” He laughs in surprise when Kris ducks down lower and employs the classic short-person technique—application of leverage. Grabbing Matt by the backs of his thighs, Kris tips him onto the bed and climbs up after, shoving him back until he comes to rest against the pillows. 

There’s a second and third wind, and there’s hooking up in the middle of the night after a short nap, a rough game, and one round of orgasms already between them. Matt feels heavy and slow gradually coming out of his clothes, one button, one sleeve at a time. Kris helps, but barely—mostly pressing Matt down into the bed and nipping at every bit of skin he uncovers until Matt’s hips and shoulders and wrists are buzzing from Kris’s teeth. Matt could swear he’s not always made of knees and elbows, but tonight he is. They’re good for poking Kris in the stomach and hooking him by the waist and neck.

They get off like this: Matt on his knees between Kris’s legs, hunched over him and rocking their dicks together in his fist. He’s too tired and Kris is too gross from the last round for Matt to get his face in there, and besides. Kris looks really good lying in a bunch of nice hotel pillows with his dark hair everywhere and his legs around Matt’s waist.

Kris presses his fingers into the bitemark he left before on Matt’s shoulder until Matt hisses and tips forward to breathe against his mouth. “You like kissing?” he asks.

Kris huffs in answer. “Who doesn’t like kissing?” 

“Thought I’d ask.” They hadn’t before, but Kris leans up for it now, anchoring one hand in Matt’s hair again and licking into his mouth. 

Marc-Andre never kissed him. Not once. The only time Matt tried was that first playoffs. In hindsight, he can see his mistake.

Kris has no such hang-up, and this is instructive too. Here, the stakes are low in a way they never were with Marc. In a way Matt never knew they could be. Matt brings them both off with his hand, Kris spilling curses into his mouth, any tension they’re still carrying from earlier giving way to fucked-out exhaustion. 

After, they rinse off the long day and brush their teeth, sharing the shower and the sink by unspoken agreement. Or maybe just conservation of energy. It’s too much work to say, wait your turn, and if he’s honest, Matt likes the feel of Kris reaching around him for the soap.

“You should do this more often,” Kris tells him when they finally drop into bed, under the blankets this time.

“What?”

“Quit only fucking goalies. There’s a whole world out there, Matthew.” He shoots Matt a smug, sidelong look.

“Only my Gram calls me Matthew.”

His smirk widens. “She will tell you the same thing.”

Giving in, Matt huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I hear you. But it’s not really my style. I get what you and Sid are doing. You’ve got responsibilities to the D, and he’s got the forwards—I’ve got Jarrs. It’s different.” 

“From what I can tell, you don’t really have Jarrs.”

Matt shoots him a sharp look and manages to find some tension after all. “What do you mean?”

The shrug he gets might be a little guilty. “I mean, I’ve seen the way that kid unwinds, and it’s not with you. And I don’t blame him,” he rushes to add before Matt can interrupt. “I wouldn’t want to fuck around with the guy I’m trying to push out of the net.”

Matt hesitates. “You think he’s trying to push me out?”

Kris snorts. “I told you he was, after that shutout in Buffalo. I told Flower the same thing two years ago, and he didn’t listen then, either.”

Matt makes a quiet sound of consideration. The talk he and Jarrs had after the Toronto game, Kris is probably right. It’s the game, after all, and Matt’s too good at it to ever think he’s above it.

“Don’t get me wrong—he likes you just fine. You’re doing a good job with him, and you should be proud of that. But.” He shrugs again. “I wouldn’t bring this into it.” He gestures between them, their nakedness under the blankets.

“Then why did Flower?” Matt asks, the question tumbling out before he can acknowledge that rare praise from Tanger. As soon as it hits the air, he realizes how long it was stuck in his throat.

Kris cocks an eyebrow at him. “You know the answer to that.”

“He wasn’t some martyr, you know,” Matt snaps defensively, desperately tired of that narrative. “Not like the press said after the second Cup. He didn’t _only_ do it for the team.”

“No, you idiot, he also liked you a lot.” Kris rubs a hand over his face. “Drove me nuts, but he wouldn’t listen to me. _What else could I do?_ he said. Eventually, he wouldn’t talk to me about it. And then it was over, and he was gone.” His eyes narrow at the ceiling, and that shuts Matt up for a minute.

He thinks back to Kris’s face from the game tonight, how spooked he was, even though he’d seen Flower the night before for dinner. He remembers Kris’s accusing look at the start of the season when Matt shared with the room what Flower texted him from Vegas. Matt doesn’t remember every night he and Marc had, but his whole body warms with the certainty that, yeah. Mark liked him. Marc probably loved him, just as much as he loved Tanger. And that made all of this harder and better and worse and, above all, worth it. 

“You should talk to him more. Or text at least. Don’t just wait for him to show up and drag you out of your hotel room when you’re in his city. He was more than your teammate.” 

“I don’t think you get to give me that kind of advice yet.” A silent, _kid_ , hangs off the end of that sentence, and if Matt were an eye-roller, he’d roll them so hard he could see his own pillow.

“Well you invited yourself up here for something—to see what Marc saw, or whatever—so that’s what I got.”

“Opinions and very little body hair,” Kris grumbles. “That’s what you’ve got.”

Matt snorts a quiet laugh and digs his fingers through his wet hair. He didn’t wash it or even brush it, so he finger-combs it and winces at the tangles. 

“Sorry I, uh, hogged your best friend the last couple years. I guess.” 

“You didn’t really. I still saw him all the time,” Kris answers. He rolls onto his stomach and pushes his arms underneath his pillow. “I just didn’t know he would stick to you so hard for so long. He wasn’t like that before.”

Matt is probably just needy that way, he doesn’t say. 

“Sorry I…said you stole our Cups from him,” Kris adds, shooting him a guilty glance. “You didn’t steal them. He’d kill me if he knew I said that.”

“I get it,” Matt says, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s the game, but sometimes that’s not good enough, saying that. It’s not fair.”

Kris nods. “Yeah. Exactement. It’s not fair, but it’s not your fault.”

That feels good, coming from him. Matt rubs his chest and takes a slow breath. “Thanks. I felt like shit about it all summer, especially at the draft.”

“No, that was fucked up,” Kris confirms. “I tried to watch and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Me either.” He tries not to think about Marc’s forced smile on that stage, standing there alone in the wrong jersey, and substitutes instead Marc on the ice tonight, laughing and brilliant, his team all around him. Much better. Matt’s throat tightens a little, but he swallows it down.

They drift there for a while after that until Matt’s eyes grow heavy, and the night feels like it’s coming to an end, even though morning is still a few hours off. Half asleep, he has the courage to say, “I don’t tend to get around much. Or want to. But, uh, If you ever—if you wanna circle back this way. That’d be cool. I’d be down.” 

The room falls perfectly silent, even the heat clicking off by the window. Kris says nothing, and Matt flushes hot under the heavy bedspread. About to rescind the offer and laugh it off—of everyone on the team, why would Kris want to fuck around with him, anyway—he chances a look to find Kris’s eyes closed, his face mostly buried in his pillow. 

He likely didn’t even hear the offer. Reaching over to the bedside table, Matt switches off the light. Probably for the best. He has enough to worry about. Upstart goalies after his net first among them.

In the pitch black of the room, the sound of legs shifting against the sheets warns him the moment before Tanger’s arm comes to rest across his waist, grip loose at the bottom of his ribcage. 

“You gonna make me an honest man, Matthew?” 

His tone is light, but Matt has heard enough sarcasm from him to recognize its absence. Kris heard his offer. Trapped half-beneath his body, he bends the arm closer to Kris’s chest and touches the back of his elbow, tracing his fingers up Kris’s triceps to his shoulder. He doesn’t have a joke to answer with, but he gives it his best shot.

“You never know—life comes at you fast.”

~

That was the year I was thirty  
That was the year you were thirty-one  
That was that year, now here  
Now here is another one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some visuals!
> 
>  
> 
> [Flower being unspeakably fierce.](http://puckducky.tumblr.com/post/168560583979/maljic-look-at-my-fave)  
> [Tanger not liking this one bit.](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/168606316706/maljic-tanger-and-flower-saying-bonjour)  
> [All the evidence you need that Matt Murray.](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdJsD6dBC0j/)  
> [Murray/Fleury hearteyes!](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/169306230298)  
> [And some Matt/Tanger inspiration.](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/167025411312/maljic-tanger-dives-to-save-the-goal)
> 
>  
> 
> And my [tumblr!](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/)


End file.
